


Symbiotic

by alasondria



Category: Phantasy Star Online 2
Genre: F/M, Luthaly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28024122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasondria/pseuds/alasondria
Summary: It’s been the same routine everyday since his fall from grace and the realization of it all suddenly hits him heavy.Without Alasondria he would be dead.
Kudos: 1





	Symbiotic

**Author's Note:**

> a bit of a fix-it fic for 5-3 (spoilers ahead obviously!)

Luther wakes slowly and painfully-- _ so _ painfully. It felt as if fire licked at his bones. When he shifts slightly the sharp pain that sears through him wrenches an uncharacteristic swear from his throat. He feels a pair of hands frantically pressing against his shoulders, urging him to lay flat again. He blearily reaches for them and tries in his stupor to pluck them off.

“No, Luther…  _ dear. _ Stay down,” came a voice, ever-so exasperated but tinged with that familiar worry all the same. 

_ Ah. _

“Alasondria,” Luther croaks out. Though he could scarcely make sense of his surroundings and his vision was exceptionally muddled, he could still make out his aide’s figure in the splotches of colour hovering not too far above him.

“Yes, it’s me,” she replies, her voice instantly slipping into a soft cadence and it seemed, even if it had been fleeting, to soothe the roaring aches causing him to tremble against his own frame. He looses a shaky sigh and fights the urge to run a hand through his hair. He keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the one thing that brought solace to him amongst the waves of confusion and anxiety; Alasondria’s blurry silhouette peering back at him. She brings one hand up to brush back his bangs, mussed as they were. His mouth forms a taut line and his brows knit. Calming as her gesture was, his head still thrums with thoughts far too disorganized.

Alasondria frowns, noticing Luther’s troubled stare. Her fingers fall from his pale locks and instead move to trace the sunken curve of his cheekbone.  _ He looks so gaunt, _ she muses.  _ He’ll recover. _

She knew that, but her heart still pounds with dread in her chest as she beholds her fallen prince.

He closes his eyes and for a moment all they share is the quiet of the air, marked only by the even breaths Luther took. He exhales, frustrated, and his eyes flutter open suddenly. He blinks once, twice, then a third time, and squints hard. At last his face breaks into a lazy, lopsided smile. Alasondria blinks back, perplexed.

“Your hair is pinned up.”

Alasondria remains silent for a beat until it hits her.

“...Well,” she laughs quietly. “It is difficult to take care of an injured prince with hair in your face.”

“Mm,” Luther hums low. “It suits you.”

“Thank you, dear, but flattery is the least of your concern right now.”

“Quite,” he offers. “I suppose I should concern myself with the question of how I am even  _ alive _ right now.”

“That…” Alasondria retracts her hands, clasping them in front of her. She casts her attention wayward and bites her bottom lip, worrying it as she mulls over how best to answer.

“Alasondria,” Luther starts, his firm tone catching her off guard. “I’ve mind enough to piece it together myself. But I…” at this he falters, voice catching in his throat. He feebly reaches out with a shaking hand and drops it on his aide’s thigh, his fingers clutching the fabric of her robe desperately. 

“I don’t want to believe in my calculations this time.”

Alasondria immediately grabs at his hand, holding it tight in hers. “Oh, Luther… I’m certain you won’t like hearing it even if it came from me.”

“...It is true then.”

“It is.”

Luther’s stare cuts through her, intense and raw. “You know what happens when you use it. You know how much it eats away at your life. And what did you do?”

“Save  _ yours!” _ Alasondria exclaims. “I know the repercussions, but I had the chance to save you. I wasn’t going to forsake you a second time. I couldn’t.”

“So instead you curse me to live again in a life where my aide-- _ my love-- _ will die, at best, in the next two years?” Luther swiftly counters, his voice oozing a bitterness usually so pointedly unreserved for her.

Alasondria flinches away from him, reflexively dropping his hand.

Seeing her recoil from his malice-riddled words had him regretting them the moment they hit the air. The overwhelming guilt that lances through him stings far worse than the pain blooming in his chest. He can do little else but hold his tongue as the silence returns, tense and angry and uncomfortable, and Luther curses himself to every conceivable hell for his unfiltered emotions.  _ Yet how could I not be furious, _ he thinks.  _ A second chance was never meant for me. I don’t deserve this. And yet, she holds herself back to walk beside me. _

Luther clenches his fist weakly, drawing it up and back to his side. He’s lost to his musings until he notices the way Alasondria is turned from him, her face deliberately hidden. He does  _ not _ miss the obvious tremble of her shoulders. Horrified that his words have struck her so, Luther lurches forward, clawing himself upwards from bed, urging himself towards his aide to wrap his arms around her, blatantly ignoring the way his body screams against the action. The sudden shift in weight causes Alasondria to whip her head around in time for it to be unceremoniously tucked into the crook of Luther’s shoulder.

“ _ What are you doing?! _ ” She exclaims. “You should be resting!”

“I’m sorry,” Luther says, voice dreadfully strained. “I am  _ sorry _ , Alasondria. I was callous in the face of your sacrifice. I should be thanking you, not yelling at you.”

Where her hands hovered before, they now press cautiously into his sides, her fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, and she allows herself to lean into his embrace ever so, sniffling as she does.

“You had good reason to,” she mumbles and the way her voice cracks on her words makes Luther’s gut burn cold. “I promised you I would never use demonization so brazenly and yet I did the most foolish thing because I… I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

_ And I can’t bear to lose you now, _ Luther thinks, grimacing.

“I am the most fortunate idiot of a man to have you as my aide. You deserve someone far better, my dear.”

“If you are an idiot then I must be the court’s jester,” Alasondria shoots back.

Luther gives a shake of his head as he struggles to reach up to card a hand through the unpinned locks of hair framing his aide’s face but is swiftly stopped by her sudden electric gaze glaring holes through him. He drops his arm again, letting it loop loosely around her waist instead.

“You are remarkable,” Luther gives a deep theatrical sigh but finds he regrets it instantly when pain sparks in his chest, forcing a grunt out of his throat. His aide detangles herself from his arms and huffs loudly as she begins urging him back down. A protest hangs on his lips but Alasondria holds a finger up and scowls hard.

“ _ Rest.  _ We shall speak more.  _ Later. _ ”

Luther yields to her and lays down without a fight, a horrible ache settling back into his muscles. Alasondria gingerly draws the covers over him, leaning down afterwards to press a lingering kiss to his temple. Luther almost instinctively raises an arm to cup her face but he is served an immediate knowing look. He snorts and gives a minute nod of his head.

“I know, I know.”

The fire swells in his chest again and Luther closes his eyes, trying earnestly to think of anything but the searing pain raging through him. He drifts in and out of consciousness for what seems like an eternity until sleep at last claims him; the last thing he hears is Alasondria’s voice humming a gentle lilt.

It isn’t until ten days pass that Luther is able to walk--with Alasondria’s help--among the land of the living again. A dull ache surges through his chest with each breath he takes and the swollen, angry, red and purple scar spanning his torso is a stark reminder of his foolhardy endeavour that landed him in this position. He sees it every morning when his aide sits him up and redresses his wound and he can do little else but stare back at it in the mirror of his study, mentally berating himself for his idiocy. Alasondria, naturally, knows her prince better than any and always makes a point to brush his bangs back and kiss between his brows and remind him that he is a good man, mistakes happen, and Harriet has already forgiven him, so enough with the self-flagellation,  _ I know you were thinking it,  _ between each pass of the gauze.

A chuckle threatens to escape him but he’s gotten better at withholding them, knowing full well the action will cause the wound to bite back. He puts his focus on his aide’s hands moving carefully but quickly. She ties the gauze off at the end below his sternum, snips the excess, and tucks the knot carefully under the topmost layer, adjusting it for his comfort afterwards. It’s been the same routine everyday since his fall from grace and the realization of it all suddenly hits him heavy.

Without Alasondria he would be dead.

Alasondria saved him.

She’d saved him by paying her own life forward despite the risk it put her in because she loved him so irrevocably and would rather put the dagger’s edge to her neck than have it pointed at his. Luther  _ will _ prove to her that it was not in vain. He will recover and he will double down on his research and he  _ will  _ make progress towards a cure. He will toil endlessly for a future without Ephemera. For her sake.


End file.
